


I Can't Reach You

by Jevvica



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s02e10 Trial and Punishment, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5400194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jevvica/pseuds/Jevvica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I admit, this will be particularly enjoyable, because this one is special.”  Rochefort pulled a dagger out of his belt and toyed with it.  “But he won’t be the last.  Everyone you love, every girl you’ve ever been seen flirting with, every witless Musketeer I can lay my hands on, I will drag them before you and you will watch them die.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Now, Aramis has not been my favorite lately. Or...ever, but that is beside the point. I have not had much patience with him, but a reviewer, Deana, made a comment about how scared Aramis must have been in the dungeon during “Trial and Punishment”. And it inspired me a bit.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Aramis looked up as the cell doors creaked open and Rochefort stood before him. His hands ached to punch that smug smile off his face.

“Execute me, torture me in the market square for all to see. It doesn’t matter. I will not confess anything to you.” 

“Oh, I will execute you. And it will be slow and painful in the coming, I promise. But not yet. I can’t have the Queen thinking of you as a martyr to her cause. I don’t want anyone believing you noble or good. No, before the end, I’ll see you broken and begging and declaring whatever I tell you to.”

“Never.”

“Stupid Musketeers,” mused Rochefort, making a motion toward the door. “You wear your loyalties like those ridiculous pauldrons, for all to see.” There were sounds of steps and scrapes as Porthos was dragged into view.

Aramis’ heart froze.

This wasn’t possible. Porthos was supposed to be in Spain, getting the leverage they needed to exonerate the Queen. To save them all. He couldn’t be here.

“Porthos…” The name was out of his lips before he could stop himself. The big man’s doublet was missing and he stood, swaying unsteadily, his wrists bound. Porthos’ eyes searched and rolled, seemingly unable to focus. “Let him go. You have no quarrel with him.”

“Of course I have a quarrel with him!” roared Rochefort. “Just as I have a problem with all you damned Musketeers. But I admit, this will be particularly enjoyable, because this one is special.” Rochefort pulled a dagger out of his belt and toyed with it. “But he won’t be the last. Everyone you love, every girl you’ve ever been seen flirting with, every witless Musketeer I can lay my hands on, I will drag them before you and you will watch them die.”

“Don’t do this,” said Aramis.

“Well, that all depends on you, doesn’t it?” mused Rochefort. “Admit what you’ve done. Admit to sleeping with the Queen and plotting against the King. And I’ll let him live.”

Aramis looked at Porthos. His dark eyes had finally found Aramis, though he still looked dazed.

Aramis couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sacrifice Anne on Rochefort’s word to spare Porthos.

Porthos was a soldier. 

He’d told Aramis to deny it. 

He had no choice.

The words were death and ash in his mouth.

“I will not betray my Queen.”

Rochefort smiled.

And plunged the dagger into Porthos’ stomach and lifted.

Aramis bellowed and his vision went as red as the blood soaking Porthos’ shirt.

Aramis pulled and jerked, but his shoulders held. 

The wall refused to crumble and the chains would not give.

Porthos fell.

First to his knees.

And then to his back.

Aramis strained, but his thumbs would not break.

Blood and more spilled through Porthos’ tied hands and onto the rock of the floor.

Aramis twisted and clawed, but the skin of his wrists would not tear.

The big man lay just out of reach.

No matter how Aramis raged and thrashed and kicked.

He couldn’t get to Porthos.

Rochefort and the Red Guard were gone.

Only Aramis and Porthos remained.

“Porthos,” cried Aramis, leaning as far as he could. “Porthos. Look at me. I need you to come to me. I can’t reach you and I need to tend that wound.”

Porthos turned his head to look at him, gasping for air. Aramis beckoned with numb fingers.

“If you just...just a little distance, Porthos. I’ll fix it. It’ll be alright, I just need you to reach out. Everything will be okay.”

“You’re still...still lyin’...to me.” The words slammed into Aramis like a weight.

“No,” he said, shaking his head frantically. “I didn’t-”

“You did,” interrupted Porthos with a wet growl. “You are. ‘M dead.” He held up crimson hands, and the blood pooled around him. “It’s bad.”

“You don’t give up. Not you!”

“I’m dead,” continued Porthos. “The Queen’ll be dead...soon enough. Athos...d’Artagnan… Country’ll fall…”

“Don’t say that, don’t! We’ll find a way. We always do.” Aramis reached out, stretching. “Please, Porthos, I need you. Just try. I can’t reach you!”

“No...can’t,” whispered Porthos. He coughed and his lips were stained ruby red. “Aramis…”

“Porthos?” His eyes had gone dark and empty. “No! Porthos?!” The broad chest was still.

The only movement was the blood.

Creeping.

Spreading.

Staining.

Aramis screamed.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

There was no air in his lungs.

Aramis staggered to his feet, thrashing against the binds that held him.

He clawed at his wrists, only to find no manacles. 

Aramis blinked at the grey light slowly growing with rose hues.

Gasping, he stared.

No dank dungeon, but a clean country breeze.

No gloating Rochefort, but a startled looking d’Artagnan.

His bedroll strewn about the grass, not bloody stone.

“Aramis?” D’Artagnan’s voice was soft. Wary. “Everything okay?”

No blood anywhere.

He couldn’t seem to get enough air.

A dream?

A memory?

Aramis looked up into concerned eyes.

“Where’s Porthos?”


	2. Chapter 2

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“Where’s Porthos?”  Aramis was glad that his voice wasn’t shaking as badly as the rest of him. 

“Off to find some breakfast,” said d’Artagnan, frowning.  “What’s wrong?”

Aramis spun around, searching.  Musketeers were rising all over the clearing, just off of the road.  Men waking and packing and searching out food before another long day of travel. 

Traveling to war.

He remembered now. 

Leaving the monastery, rejoining the Musketeers, leaving Paris.

Trying to find his balance again.

 

The nightmare clung to him.

 

A loud, rumbling chuckle caught his attention and it drew him like a tether.  Through campfires and the morning bustle.   

A glimpse of dark curls and it took everything he had not to break into a run.

Perhaps it was childish, but he needed to see Porthos.   See him alive and breathing. 

Porthos was sitting on a fallen log, laughing at something someone had said.  He looked up and caught Aramis’ eye, his grin softened.

Aramis faltered.

It hurt.

How did he still deserve that smile?

Porthos must have seen something on his face, because he was rising, moving toward him, brow furrowed.

“Aramis?” he asked, low and strong.  Not like the dream.  Not like the dream.  “What’s wrong?”  Aramis cleared his throat and gave Porthos his best smile.

“Not a thing, just looking for you.”  The smile must have failed miserably, because Porthos’ frown only grew.  Aramis reached out and gripped Porthos’ shoulder.  Solid and real.  

“You can tell me,” said Porthos.  “You always could.”  

He meant so much more than this morning and this nightmare and this fear. 

“A dream,” Aramis admitted finally.  “Nothing more.  It was foolish.”  Porthos studied him a moment and the frown eased as he slung an arm around Aramis’ shoulders. 

“Then let’s eat,” he said.  His voice was light, but his grip was stronger than necessary and Aramis was eternally grateful for it.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

The river was fast and rough, due to recent autumn rains.  Fifty yards or more across, it danced and sparkled in the noonday sun.  The bridge over it was less spectacular. 

“Not the finest example of  French road and bridge upkeep,” said Athos, as he eyed the bridge skeptically.  

“Do you think it will hold?” asked d’Artagnan.

“For normal traffic?  Probably.  It’s the weight of a regiment laden for war that worries me.” 

“Is there another way?” 

“To find another route would cost us too much time,” answered Athos. 

“Well, let’s take a look,” said Aramis cheerfully and he nudged his horse out onto the bridge.  Old stone and wood seemed solid enough as he rode the entire length of the span.  “It looks alright to me,” he said, returning to the others.  “No obvious rot or weakness.  We might spread everyone out a bit, just to make sure.  Take the wagons over one at a time.” 

“Let everyone know,” commanded Athos.  “Slow and easy, no bunching.  Wagons last.”

Over the next hour, the Musketeers moved over the bridge.  Aramis pulled his horse up next to Athos’ to watch the last wagon come over. 

“We’ve lost time,” said Athos softly.  “No time for a break here, we will press on until nightfall.” 

“Yes, Captain,” answered Aramis, loving the way the title made Athos glare.  He turned his horse to spread the order when a thunk and a shout drew his attention.  He looked back as the remaining wagon came to a stop at the center of the bridge.  A last few Musketeers grouped around a wheel, pulling.  Porthos, bringing up the rear, swung down from his horse to lend his considerable strength.

As Aramis watched, one of the wooden beams that spanned the stone supports broke, fell, and was quickly swept downriver.  

And then another. 

The wagon dipped at one corner, then listed to one side.

Another plank of wood fell.

“The boards are giving way,” whispered Aramis.  “The boards are giving way!” he repeated, shouting.  “Off the bridge, quickly!”  He leapt to the ground, running for the edge of the bridge.  “Porthos!  Run!”

Porthos unhitched the horses from the wagon, slapping them to action with a yell.  Everyone left on the bridge turned and ran for shore.  

They made headway until there was a crack of sound, like thunder.

Aramis watched, breathless, as Porthos stumbled.

The bridge shifted.  It lurched to one side and then began to crumble.

Among the noise of crushing stone and splitting wood, men yelled and horses screamed. The Musketeers could only watch in horror as the center of bridge collapsed. 

Water splashed and surged as men, horses, and the wagon tumbled into the rushing river.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Aramis was distantly aware of Athos’ voice, shouting order behind him.  Everyone has sprung into action, lining the bank of the river, pulling men and supplies out of the rushing waters.

He didn’t see Porthos.  

Aramis scanned the water, the river’s edge.  Carefully, he ventured out onto the span of bridge that remained standing.  He thought he might have heard Athos shout his name, but he ignored it and kept moving, kept searching, his heart in his throat.

At the edge precarious edge of what was left of the bridge, he looked down at the wreckage and dropped to his knees.  Porthos was mostly submerged in the middle of a mass of stone and wood and water, about six feet below.

“Porthos!”

The big man looked up while he scrabbled for a hold on the timber that crisscrossed his body.  Aramis flattened out on his stomach and reached down.  

“Come on, Porthos!  Grab my hand!”  Effort contorted his face, but Porthos didn’t move any closer.  “Come on!”

“Can’t.”  He could barely hear Porthos over the water and the shouts of men in the river and on shore.

“I can’t reach you,” said Aramis

_I can’t reach you._

And Aramis was back in the nightmare. 

It wasn’t blood, it was water. 

The water swirled around Porthos, pushing him down, waves coming up and over the newly created stone obstacle, threatening to submerge him.  His grip was slipping. 

Aramis couldn’t get to him.

“Porthos,” he yelled, fighting the panic.  “You have to try.”   

His best friend giving up. 

Aramis was failing him all over again.

The stone rubble shifted in the current and Porthos slipped further under the water.

He desperately tore at the buckles of his doublet, ripping it off and throwing it aside. 

“Aramis!  Don’t-”  Porthos’ shout was cut off by a rush of water.  

He would get to Porthos. 

This time, he’d be there.

It was just a little distance 

Porthos shook away the deluge.  “Don’t! ‘M trapped!”

Aramis pulled up short of his planned jump.

The broken timbers.

The jumbled stone.

If he jumped down to the pile of wreckage in and under the water, who knew how it would move.  He might fall into the river or send Porthos beneath the surface. 

His hands clenched and he pushed the dream away. 

“Rope!” bellowed Aramis as loudly as he could.  “I need rope here!”

Out of the activity and confusion on the river’s bank, d’Artagnan flew, a coil of rope thrown over a shoulder.

“D’Artagnan is coming.  You hold on.  We’ll lift some of that off.  It’s going to be alright.”

Porthos gave him a tight smile that became a grimace.   

Aramis barely looked up as d’Artagnan sprinted to his side.

“He caught in the rubble.  We need to get it off of him.”  

“You were going to jump,” stated D’Artagnan as he quickly uncoiled the rope.  

“I still will, if this doesn’t work,” retorted Aramis.  “We’re going to toss the rope down,” he shouted, raising his voice over the sound of the water.

Porthos nodded.  He caught the end on the first try, looped the rope around a beam of wood and tied it.  He shook water from his face, sputtering, and gave a weak signal that he was ready.

Aramis and d’Artagnan heaved on the rope.  The cord bit into Aramis’ hands through his gloves and he pulled harder when nothing happened.  D’Artagnan gave a growl of effort as slowly, painfully, the wooden beam shifted. 

Rock fell away as the beam rose and Pothos shoved.  As the rubble was displaced and the river swirled in, Porthos slipped under the water.  The stones tumbled and sank and settled.

They waited as the river ran and changed and didn’t stop.

Wooden beams floated away. 

Porthos didn’t resurface. 

Aramis stared at the place he’d disappeared.

Nothing.

 

The nightmare, the fear, clawed at him.

 

Seconds became years. 

Lifetimes.

_Not again._  

The only movement was the water.

Flowing. 

Rippling. 

Relentless.

  
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


	3. Chapter 3

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Aramis took a step back and readied himself for the leap into the river. He needed to clear the stones, or he’d just break upon them and be of no use to Porthos.

Porthos, who had disappeared into the murk.

Who hadn’t come back up.

He was going to reach him.

He drew in a deep breath, only to have it wrenched from his chest by strong arms that pulled him up short.

“Aramis! Look!” He followed d’Artagnan’s pointing hand.

Downriver, further than he’d believed possible, wet curls glinted in the sun. Porthos was dragging himself up the bank of the river.

And he was running off the bridge, and down the bank.

By the time Aramis had reached him, Athos was already there. Porthos was on his hands and knees in the grass, coughing and gagging. The big Musketeer let out a groan of pain and rolled to this back.

“Porthos?” Aramis’ hovered, uncertain.

“‘M alright,” gasped Porthos. “Just...give me a second…” Another bout of coughing left him breathless and curled up.

“I’m very familiar with your definition of alright,” muttered Athos. He motioned for d’Artagnan’s help. They carefully pulled off Porthos’ doublet and lifted away the soaked shirt. Vivid bruises were already coloring Porthos’ abdomen, bars of black and blue. “As I suspected, perfectly alright,” said Athos dryly. “We’ll camp here. Rest and regroup.”

“We don’t...need to do that...Captain. Treville expects us-”

“I don’t care.” Athos’ voice was hard. “We need to see what we’ve lost, redistribute loads. We’ll make camp and head out again tomorrow.”

Aramis couldn’t go to Porthos. He felt rooted. All the panic and the flight and now, he just felt heavy.

And still horribly afraid.

Porthos turned his head to look at him, gasping for air.

Just like the dream.

He flinched away from the memory.

Aramis ran a trembling hand over his face and backed away.

And another.

Movement that had seemed impossible a moment before was easy.

He turned and walked past Musketeers, into the trees, and did not look back.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Aramis wasn’t sure how many hours he’d been sitting on the fallen log when he realized someone had found him. It must have been a while, as the sky was blazing with a sunset he’d failed to notice until now.

Steady steps crunched through fallen leaves.

He’d know the presence at his back anywhere.

“You shouldn’t be hiking around.”

“No? Shame no one was around to make sure I didn’t.” Aramis ground his teeth at the lightly delivered jab. Porthos lowered himself next to Aramis with a pained hiss. “Just bruises,” he reassured as he settled. “So why don’t you tell me what’s goin’ on.”

“I’m not certain how.” He took a deep breath. “I didn’t realize you were trapped.” Porthos lifted an eyebrow.

“Okay.”

“I couldn’t tell. And you just...stayed there. You didn’t fight. You didn’t reach for my hand.”

“So...what? You thought I just wasn’t tryin’?” Porthos stared at him. “Would’ve thought you knew me better than that.” He paused and tilted his head slightly. “This have somethin’ to do with that dream you had?” Aramis ran his hands through his hair roughly and stood.

“You died. I couldn’t get to you. We were in that damn dungeon and Rochefort gutted you like an animal and I could only watch. I couldn’t reach you.” He tried to meet Porthos’ gaze and couldn’t. “I lied to you. And you didn’t trust me. You didn’t trust me to save you and you just lay there and died.”

“It was just a dream-”

“No, it wasn’t. You weren’t wrong! I did lie to you. You’re right not to believe in me.”

“That. Wasn’t. Me,” barked Porthos. “Nightmare, dream, _your_ guilt, _your_ fear. But not me.” He coughed roughly. When he spoke again, it was a grating rumble. “You kept things from me. And I was angry. Sometimes, I still am. I don’t like it, but I understand it. You and your fool ideas of protection.” He caught his breath and shook his head.

Aramis folded next to Porthos, suddenly exhausted.

“He did it to punish me. To frighten me.”

“He’s dead.”

“Maybe it was God. My reward for the death and chaos and stupidity. It doesn’t matter. It worked. When I saw you in that river...and I couldn’t...”

“Doesn’t sound like somethin’ the loving God you talk about would do. And Rochefort is dead. He was a connivin’ bastard, but I doubt he had any part in the Musketeers using this piss poor bridge. He can’t hurt you. Or me. Not ever again.” Porthos looked at him sadly. “The only person punishing you is you.”

Aramis turned away. They watched the setting sun, side by side, the only sound was the troubling rasp of Porthos’ breathing.

It was several minutes before Aramis could make himself speak.

“Maybe I don’t deserve friends and loyalty and contentment.”

“Any of us really deserve the things that life hands us? Good or bad?”

“Did Rochefort?”

“No. But then he made his choices. We make ours. And I choose, _I choose_ ”- continued Porthos, overriding Aramis’ objection, “to trust you. Like before. Like always.” Porthos peered at him in the gloom. “World ain’t right without you. I want you by my side. But you have to want it, too.”

“I do.” Aramis cleared his throat and tried to sound certain. “I do.”

Porthos coughed again, a deep, wet sound.

Aramis reached out and slid his fingertips over Porthos’ damp cheek bone before flattening his hand to cup his face. The skin was too warm.

“You’re getting sick.”

“Yeah. S’okay.”

“How’s that?”

“You’ll look after me.”

Porthos’ smile was wicked, teasing.

Aramis thought it was beautiful.

“Of course,” said Aramis, an agreement and a promise. “Like before. Like always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas! I give you this gift of a finished story!
> 
> Maybe I could have the gift of reviews?  
> ;)


End file.
